


The Word Withheld

by sidebyside_archivist



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series, Star Trek: The Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Episode: s03e09 The Tholian Web, M/M, Telepathy, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-11-01
Updated: 2000-11-01
Packaged: 2020-06-24 21:22:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19732015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidebyside_archivist/pseuds/sidebyside_archivist
Summary: After retrieving Kirk from the interspatial rift of "The Tholian Web," Spock realizes his oath to Starfleet and his service aboard the Enterprise are in jeopardy because he has denied to himself—and withheld from Kirk—a certain truth about the nature of the Vulcan relationship called "t’hy’la."





	The Word Withheld

**Author's Note:**

> Note from LadyKardasi and Sahviere, the archivists: this story was originally archived at [Side by Side](https://fanlore.org/wiki/Side_by_Side_\(Star_Trek:_TOS_zine\)) and was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project in 2019. We tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Side by Side’s collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sidebyside/profile).
> 
> Author's Note:
> 
> Acknowledgments: Many thanks to my dear beta-readers, Islaofhope and Animasola. I find the process of declaring a story finished and posting it to be somewhat unnerving, so I am enormously relieved to have had these trusted friends look over the copy first. Their suggestions were invaluable. Any errors that remain are strictly mine. Thanks also to kira-nerys for boundless patience and for her leadership in online festival-making.

_Hurry, Spock!_

The ghostly figure of James T. Kirk floated a foot above the upper deck of the bridge, his gloved hands extended toward his first officer. Spock was two point one meters away, well able to see that Kirk’s spacesuit’s oxygen gauge read almost depleted.

 _Hurry, Spock!_ Kirk’s face was only partially visible behind the suit’s visor, but Spock could see Kirk’s lips forming Spock’s name, over and over. _Spock! Hurry, Spock!_

Jim was still alive! And Jim needed him. Forgetting instantly about command decorum and Vulcan restraint, Spock reached out instinctively to touch Jim—and failed to make contact. Instead, his hand passed through the image of his captain and friend, an image that was growing more transparent with each passing second. “Captain. Captain. Captain!” There were a thousand things to say that Spock had not said, and this might be his last chance, yet all he could do was repeat Jim’s title and reach for him in vain.

And notice that the oxygen gauge read critically low. Then Kirk’s image was gone. After that, Spock thought, and moved, and issued orders, and did what was necessary to rescue Kirk, but he did so with what felt like a gaping hole in his heart.

He was successful; Kirk was rescued. But the hole was merely covered over, not filled in, because there were many threats in space, and there were many things Spock had never told Kirk and never would.

He had regretted his silence bitterly that afternoon when Kirk was presumed dead. But at their first meeting after the rescue, he permitted himself one soulful look into the captain’s luminous eyes, and then locked his heart up again behind its wall. There were some things better left unsaid. Kirk was alive and still Spock’s friend, and that was more than enough.

In any case, there was the ship to see to, and the log to be recorded, and the lie about not listening to the captain’s last orders to be admitted and explained, and then Spock fully expected to be called on the carpet to explain why he’d disobeyed Kirk’s standing order to take the ship to safety. Kirk had on occasion risked the ship or the mission—not to mention his life and his career—to rescue Spock or another crewmember, but he was not likely to look favorably on anyone else’s taking that liberty.

And he would have reason. Kirk seemed to have an uncanny knowledge of just how much he could risk in a given situation. Spock could never accurately calculate the probabilities of success in such an event, because Kirk was a very random factor. Kirk had always succeeded.

Spock could not be expected to have such random factors in his favor. If he tried such stunts too often with the Enterprise, one day he would lose the gamble. He considered that fact as he made his way to Kirk’s quarters to give the explanation for his command decisions.

Kirk reminded him, as expected, that he had risked the ship for one man’s safety. Burning hazel eyes watched him intently, as though Kirk were seeking some knowledge of Spock that would be gained only by this intense scrutiny. Perhaps Kirk searched Spock for signs of the failure of confidence McCoy had accused him of. Perhaps he looked to see if Spock would have a “human” reaction to his statement.

Spock had had nothing much to say in his defense. _I am incapable of leaving my t’hy’la to perish when I believe there is even a minuscule chance I may be able to save him,_ he thought but did not say. It was proof he was ill suited for command. When the safety of the Enterprise was at stake, emotion had held sway over logic in Spock’s mind. “At the time I considered the probability of success to be high,” he told Kirk, attempting to sound logical. “You may of course examine my logs as well as the available data on the hostile region of space. Dr. McCoy found an antidote within the time available, and Mr. Scott and I were able to recalculate the interphase periods after the Tholian intrusion.”

Kirk had waved his hand in the air, dismissing Spock’s data and his reasoning at once. “You did the same thing I would have done,” he said gently. “I’m supposed to reprimand you as a matter of ship’s discipline, but … in this case all _is_ well that ends well. We’ll send the data and the logs to Starfleet; let them figure it out for themselves. But _I_ understand.” And he smiled _that_ smile, the one that made Spock want to drop to his knees on the deck and beg Kirk never to leave him.

Instead Spock nodded and left, to go off duty and meditate until his Vulcan impassivity should be restored.

He was only marginally successful.

*****

Dinner in the Officer’s Mess with the captain was not an unusual event, most evenings. Spock had never before attached great significance to whether Kirk was free to dine with him on any specific occasion. But the evening after the rescue, dinner with the captain seemed most important. Spock and McCoy both accompanied Kirk to dinner.

It was quite possible that, despite his extensive meditation, Spock had deeply emotional reasons for rearranging his schedule so that he could dine with the captain, but he declined to examine them.

McCoy, however, was never one to decline to ponder—or to demonstrate—emotion. Spock felt the doctor’s hand close around his elbow briefly as they stepped through the door to the mess. He glanced back over his shoulder. McCoy only smiled and quirked one of his expressive arched eyebrows at Spock. Instead of pulling away, as he might have done the day before, Spock answered with a comprehending nod, and they followed Kirk into the room.

Spock tried, however, not to look at the captain too often during their dinner. He wanted to. For the past twenty hours since Kirk’s return, he had not been able to clear his mind of the image of Kirk, running out of air in his pressure suit, mouthing over and over, _Hurry, Spock!_

They ate in silence, which was not unusual for Spock and Kirk when they dined together, but was quite odd for McCoy, and after a few minutes, Kirk put his fork down and said, “Okay, you two. At some point you’re going to have to stop treating me as though I might break at any moment. Just relax.”

Spock shot up an innocent eyebrow, as though to say, _I, Captain?_

Kirk chuckled. “Yes, you.” He slapped Spock’s shoulder playfully. Then he shot a glance across the table. “And you too, Bones.”

McCoy reached across the table to grasp Kirk’s wrist. “He’s probably just thinkin’, as I am, that your chair could be empty tonight. We almost lost you, Jim.”

“I know, Bones,” Kirk said gently. “But it’s not the first time, and it’s not going to be the last.”

Spock cleared his throat. “I was forced to declare you deceased,” he said finally. “And to hold a memorial service.”

Kirk offered Spock his other hand. Spock hesitated, watching the captain’s eyes, hyper-aware of McCoy’s intense blue gaze on him as well. Kirk smiled at him slightly, with that subtle quirk of his lips that was almost Vulcanly restrained, but that had always spoken volumes to Spock’s heart. Slowly, almost reverently, Spock took the hand.

Kirk’s fingers gripped his tightly. “My friend,” he said, very quietly.

Friend. Humans used the term very loosely. But the word that came to Spock’s lips was not one that could be taken lightly. It was not a word that he should voice in front of McCoy. He found himself saying it anyway. “T’hy’la.”

“What’s that?” Kirk asked.

Spock took a deep breath, and did not let go Kirk’s hand. “It is … a word for friend. A specific one. The term would not apply to an acquaintance or a casual friend. Standard does not have an exact equivalent.” He swallowed.

For answer, Kirk squeezed Spock’s hand very hard, then released it and retrieved his fork.

McCoy, releasing Kirk also, examined Spock’s face intently. “That the only meaning it has, or is there more to it?” he asked. But his voice was gentle, rather than challenging.

Spock cleared his throat. “It can be translated with other Standard terms as well. It is difficult to condense a word laden with meaning in Vulcan culture into a single word that belongs to a different culture,” he said. “The Universal Translator would probably render it as “friend,” but if you spoke the word “friend” in Standard, the translator would not give “t’hy’la.”

“I see,” Kirk said, though he obviously didn’t.

Spock cleared his throat again. “It could also translate as … brother.”

“Brother.” Kirk smiled. “I like that. Brothers in arms. Comrades. I’ll remember the word, Spock, and thank you.”

McCoy looked unconvinced, but he wisely said nothing.

Spock found he was no longer hungry, and he could no longer make even a pretense of eating. He put his fork down, but steepled his fingers in front of him, fixing his gaze on McCoy and daring the doctor to comment.

McCoy only gave him an understanding smile, and smoothly changed the subject, questioning Kirk, with a slightly too-bright voice, about their next assignment.

After dinner, as they left the mess, Kirk laid a casual hand on Spock’s shoulder, something no one else aboard had Spock’s implicit permission to do. “Care for a post-crisis game of chess, Mr. Spock?” Kirk said lightly.

Spock sighed, aware of McCoy’s perceptive gaze on him. Kirk’s touch on his shoulder was like a fire that burned yet left no visible mark. Kirk squeezed gently. “T’hy’la?” he said, pronouncing the word perfectly.

Spock could not stop himself from flinching infinitesimally, but he kept any further expression off his face.

Even so, the slight reaction was not something Kirk would miss. “Forgive me, I said something wrong, didn’t I?”

Spock cleared his throat. “Not at all. It is … the term has much meaning to … to Vulcans that I have not explained.”

Kirk smiled his slow, easy smile. “You want to tell me over chess? If it’s a very complex explanation, maybe you’ll take my attention off the game and get the upper hand.”

Spock bit his lower lip. Kirk had no idea what he was saying. _It is an explanation you will never want to hear,_ Spock thought. _If you knew, you would not forgive disobedience so easily next time._ It was bad enough to risk the ship for anyone, even the captain. To risk 432 lives for friendship was bad enough. But to risk them because the captain was t’hy’la—it was egregious, it was thoroughly unacceptable. Spock would have to suffer more than a reprimand for that. He’d have to be sent away. Vulcan relationships did not belong on a starship.

So he must never allow himself to slip again. He must instead be the kind of t’hy’la that he had just defined to Kirk: friend and brother, no more. And let the full explanation wait until the mission was over. Kirk might not forgive Spock even then, but then again, he might.

“My apologies, Captain,” Spock said. “I am required in the temporal physics lab tonight. The timewarp simulations I have been running are at a critical stage and they require my supervision. Another time, perhaps?”

“Sure. Another time.” But Kirk looked unconvinced. “You will … explain about Vulcan friendship? I want to know.”

“I will make an attempt.” _To hide the truth._ “If that is all?”

Kirk slid his hand off Spock’s shoulder. “Of course. Enjoy warping time. Let me know what you come up with.”

“Certainly, Captain. Bid you good night, gentlemen.” Spock turned and started down the corridor.

Behind him, he heard McCoy say, loudly, obviously intending for Spock to hear: “He’s back to his timewarp project _again_? I don’t know, Jim. Starfleet’s never going to approve it. And working on something he’ll never get to use is illogical. Hey—you think he has something goin’ on with that cute little lab assistant of his, Jones? She follows him like his shadow.”

Kirk just gave him a look—Spock could tell, even though his back was turned and he couldn’t see Kirk do it. “He’s just about the only person aboard who treats her like a human being, McCoy, not like a radioactive substance. You’d follow him around, too, if you were in her shoes.”

Spock could hear McCoy’s snort even though he was already around the curve of the corridor and halfway to the turbolift by then. He did not smile, of course, but he felt his shoulders relax slightly, and his step was lighter. The communication from McCoy was loud and clear: all is back to normal.

That condition would soon change.

*****

The temporal physics lab was dark except for a faint glow from its three computer terminals. Spock stepped over to the nearest one. _Tempus Fugit_ glowed on the screen in golden gothic lettering. Beneath it was written in the same type, _tthekol gnaal thrrrip,_ which was an inexact transliteration of a similar Andorian adage. And beneath that, in Standard, _Time flies when you’re having fun._

Spock sighed. At twenty hundred hours the tiny lab was not manned, so there was no one present to hear him, and this most recent message was the tenth in a series. Even a Vulcan could be forgiven for feeling a sense of irritation. He knew who’d done it, of course. Crewman Jones L. Jones, one of his young protégés, was not really a scientist, not really a soldier. But she was a decent lab assistant who was growing more competent under Spock’s tutelage, and that was something.

Once, she’d been the most feared member of the ship’s maintenance staff—“a walking disaster,” Mr. Scott had called her. “That one has ten thumbs and she’ll na’ come near ma’ engines. I have standards, Mr. Spock. If Jones did in engineering what she did to the ship’s laundry, we’d all be blasted ta bits.”

Spock could not argue. He still remembered how uncomfortable it had been to wear his uniform pants a size too small for more than a week. He’d endured more strange looks from the human crewmembers in that week than he had done during his entire tour of duty.

So the engineering decks were still strictly off-limits to Jones, and the maintenance staff wanted her off the ship, but Spock had seen potential in her and had transferred her to the science section. He’d discovered that she was possessed of much energy and intelligence that was not being tapped by her position as a maintenance worker, and he suspected that was part of the reason she unconsciously created disasters.

This recent diversion, posting slogans and quotations related to Time in this lab, was quite harmless and was occupying a small portion of her boundless energy, so he’d said nothing to her about it.

The fact that he had allowed it to irritate him even a little was simply proof that he required more meditation. Or more perfect concentration on his work. He cleared the frivolous messages off the screen and pulled up the results of the most recent simulation, intending to lose himself in the data.

Three hours, fifty-seven minutes later, he stood to stretch fatigued muscles and allowed the screen to blank, conserving power. When he came back to it, at forty-two seconds past ship’s midnight, soft pink calligraphic lettering had replaced the previous day’s slogans with the verse, _Gather ye rosebuds while ye may._ He stared at it, feeling slightly confused even though he recognized the quotation. Why had Jones included this one? If one could warp time, enter a particular timestream at will, as he was attempting to learn to do, why would one need to collect young flowers with alacrity? One could jump back to the youth of a flower, an institution, or a person at any point one wished—

Spock was startled out of his reverie by the sudden awareness that someone else was present, watching him. He froze.

“Sage advice,” said a deep voice behind him—impossibly, for no one had been present when Spock had entered and no one had come in since. The voice was at once familiar and unfamiliar. Spock turned, and knew why.

One hears one’s own voice both from within and without, so one never quite hears it as it sounds to others. A Vulcan stood there who could be none other than Spock himself. He was dressed in an unmarked black tunic and trousers of Vulcan cut, along with Terran-style boots, and he had his hands folded serenely in front of him. His face was not rigidly controlled; rather, it was profoundly, utterly calm.

Spock stared for a moment in true shock, the emotion clearly displayed, until the one who had spoken quirked a serene eyebrow at him.

 _How like Sarek’s that gesture is,_ Spock thought. With effort, he reasserted his controls.

“It is sage advice, Spock,” the almost-familiar baritone repeated, and then pronounced Spock’s humanly unpronounceable family name.

Long moments ticked by as Spock looked into his own face. Correction—his own face with certain modifications. There were extra lines around the eyes, in the cheeks. Shadows under the eyes. The apparition was an older version of himself, Spock realized. No gray in the hair—he would not go gray until extreme Vulcan old age—but the signs of greater age, possibly on the order of one hundred extra years, were unmistakable in this other Spock’s face and body.

“One hundred and one,” the other Spock commented.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I am one hundred and one years older than you. You are thirty-seven. I am one hundred thirty-eight.”

“You can read me so easily?” Spock said, knowing his comment was illogical even as he spoke, for the answer was obvious.

“I read myself,” the other said. “My younger self. I have the advantage that confers perfect vision, according to the human adage: hindsight.”

“Then you believe yourself to be a future version of me.”

“That is in fact what I am—at this moment. But I have come with the goal of causing our paths to diverge.”

“To change your history?”

“To change _your_ future.” The other smiled slightly, as though that were a natural gesture for him.

Spock checked his own expression to be certain it retained a semblance of impassivity and tried to contain his dismay.

The other only seemed more amused. “Would you be so kind as to offer a one-hundred-thirty-eight-year-old man a chair?”

Spock observed him. He appeared fit and strong: clearly he was not requesting a chair because he needed one. Had this other Spock learned human conversational patterns? To make “small talk”? To ask for a chair instead of coming to the point? If so, there must be a logical purpose to those actions, Spock concluded.

“Forgive me—you did not appear as though you needed a chair,” he said as he located one on the other side of the small room and dragged it over. “One hundred thirty-eight is not so advanced an age for a Vulcan that…” He allowed his words to trail off as the illogic of the exchange struck him.

The other regarded him with an odd expression, as though there were something utterly surprising in Spock’s reactions. He folded himself into the offered chair, his eyes never leaving Spock’s.

“I was making what your human friends call a ‘little joke.’” He waved a hand. “Never mind. It took me many years to learn humor, and I have much more to learn. Do not fear. I have not come to teach you how to smile in social settings. Although you _will_ learn even that, eventually.

“I have come because I found the opportunity, through the success of some of the work you are doing now, and some you have yet to do, and because there is one thing I regret about my past. I would prefer for you that you had a chance now to alter your actions, so that you do not have to walk the path I took.

“I am the Spock you will be 101 years from now if you continue in the direction you are going. And I am here to tell you it is not a path you wish to take.” He sighed softly. “Your young assistant is correct. _Tempus fugit._ Time ‘flees.’ Time … runs away from us.”

“But time can be manipulated,” Spock answered. “Obviously. So my research in this lab will bear fruit.” He located his own chair and sat down opposite the other.

“It _will_ bear fruit, as you’ve always known. The experience at Psi 2000 was abundant proof that it can be done, and relatively simply.”

“The slingshot effect that I am investigating … ?” Spock dared to ask.

His older self waved a dismissive hand. “You do not need me to tell you about that. It is best if I limit my meddling to the area of strictest concern. You recall the events of Psi 2000.” It was not a question.

Spock nodded.

“You recall the emotions you experienced when it occurred to you that you had never once unbent enough, in thirty-six years, to tell Mother that you loved her. Your own mother.”

Spock just gazed at him.

“So when you survived the planet’s implosion, you made her a tape. And later, after the Babel incident, you spoke with her. Indeed. You finally told your mother that you loved her. How did it feel?”

“If you are a future version of me, you were there.”

“I do not ask for information, Spock. I ask in order to bring you back into touch with those feelings. That incident changed your life—our lives. But it did not change us enough. We unbent enough for Mother—the one who gave us life—but for no other would we dare such emotional vulnerability. I have come to present to you the results of the life-experiment that you are about, and to tell you that the results are not worth it.” He spread his hands.

That was an odd gesture for a Vulcan, Spock thought, and then realized whose gesture it was. He leaned forward slightly, intrigued. “And they are?”

“I have lived all my years alone because I was too proud, and mostly too afraid, to speak truth to him I held most dear. And now—it is too late.”

Spock did not pretend not to know of whom his older self spoke. “He is dead?” He almost could not speak the words. He had made that declaration about his own Jim yesterday, and if he thought of it, he could still feel the dull throbbing in his ribs he had felt then.

“Unknown. He is … missing. But I am one hundred thirty-eight years old. He would be … very old for a human. If he survived.”

“When—?”

“You do not need to know that, and it will not be soon, from your perspective. But from mine it is long ago. Hear me, Spock. You think you know what it is to be alone. For thirty-seven years, ‘give or take,’ as the Earth expression goes. I know what it is like to be alone for one hundred thirty-eight years, and I can tell you—it is no more pleasant. After a while, it becomes habit, and even when agreeable companionship is offered, one turns it down out of habit. Except at those times when instinct rules and even habit is forgotten.” He quirked a brow. “The morning after the Time with a stranger is most … uncomfortable. Certainly far worse than the occasional tryst such as you recall from your Academy days.

“But there is a greater pain than loneliness. It is the pain of a lost opportunity, opportunity come and gone so many times, never seized, until that day when it comes no more, and then there is only crushing grief.” His voice darkened; he spoke with apparent effort. “I have lived without him … for seventy-four years. At any time before that I could have told him, and I did not.”

“Told him what?”

The other’s eyes were dark, distant. “The third definition,” he grated. “The full translation I—and you—withheld.” He glanced around the room thoughtfully. “You withheld it again only hours ago, did you not? He told you he wished to understand _t’hy’la._ Perhaps you think he means only the word.”

Spock stiffened. “He means to pry into aspects of Vulcan life that he is not prepared to deal with.”

“So I thought also. And so I withheld the third definition for many years. I have reaped what I have sown. But it can be different for you, and I will take comfort in that knowledge.”

“You are an alternate version of me,” Spock protested. “Your experience and mine must diverge.”

“Indeed, for an older Spock did not come to visit me.” For a moment his eyes seemed to look right through Spock. “You must give him the definition. You must tell him the truth. About the Tholian incident. About Gamma Trianguli Six. About all the incidents.”

“I would be court-martialed. Or forced to resign.”

“Because your conception of loyalty runs deeper than a human’s would? They tolerated the violation of General Order Number Seven for Captain Pike.”

“Foolish of them.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps they were brave.”

“T’hy’la runs deep. It is quite possible that I am incapable of _not_ risking the ship for him. Or that I would be if he—if I …”

“If you told him that you love him and he accepted you.”

“Yes.”

“He trusts you more than you trust yourself, and that truly terrifies you.”

“You speak in emotional terms.”

“I speak truth.”

Spock looked away. “It is of no consequence. He must never know.”

“It is time for you to read the writing on the wall, Spock. Or that on the terminal screens.” He gestured toward the nearest one, with its admonition, _Gather ye rosebuds while ye may._

“A frivolous piece of doggerel. The poet exhorts young men to deflower maidens. Crewman Jones erred in including such Terran adolescent nonsense among her quotations.”

“Did she? Have you considered that you are like the young bud, which will age and eventually die?”

“All things do.”

“But not without having flowered. We are speaking of _your_ virginity.”

Would Spock eventually learn to speak in riddles as humans did? It was a disconcerting thought. “I am not a virgin.”

“Emotionally, you are. Oh, you have had fleeting experience of love—even a few times during moments of sexual congress—but you withhold the full experience from yourself because you believe you would lose yourself, lose all logic. I ask you—is your belief logical?”

Was it logical to think that if Spock gave Kirk the third definition and revealed his desires, the emotions would cave in on him, crushing him? Spock suspected logic had very little to do with any of his recent actions regarding Kirk. Still, there was the question of the ship, and the pretense of impartiality to keep up. “I have an oath to uphold.”

“It was an oath taken by a half-Vulcan. What would your oath have meant to Captain Pike—if you had kept it?” His older self was relentless.

Spock swallowed, hesitating. “I am forsworn,” he said at last. “I have been required to make conflicting promises.” He glanced down to see his fingers lace together tightly in his lap, the knuckles whitening. “My loyalty to the Federation and to Starfleet, even to the ship, has already come into conflict with my loyalty to the captain, and it will doubtless happen again. I believed I could contain it, but I was wrong. I am already lost.”

The other reached across the space between them and touched him for the first time. Spock looked down at the hand of his older self resting on his arm. It was thicker, slightly gnarled, the veins in the back of the hand slightly more prominent, but it was _his_ hand. Would be.

“Starfleet did not realize,” the gruff voice said, very softly, “what it would mean to ask a Vulcan to swear that oath. But perhaps if they knew—” His fingers tapped Spock’s arm thoughtfully. “Perhaps it is a fortunate thing after all. Starfleet might be forced to change. I had not considered that possibility.”

“A stone thrown into a pond sends out ripples that eventually reach every shore,” Spock said. “Your intrusion into this timestream will no doubt have numberless unforeseen consequences.”

The other raised an eyebrow and gave him that odd half-smile again. “I trust you will remember that when you go mucking about in time travel in your future,” he said enigmatically.

“And you?”

Again that half-smile. “I am here to encourage you not to make the mistakes I made. Or at least not to make the omissions I made.”

“You cannot know the consequences that would befall me if I took your advice.”

“I know something even more important, my younger self. I know what happened because I did not speak. Do you comprehend? I lost him anyway, and I never had him. All those years.” He straightened up, slowly, as if the simple movement were painful. Spock, watching, realized it was not physical pain.

“May I touch your thoughts?” his older self said.

“Would it not be too dangerous, for both of us?”

“I propose only the lightest of touches, and I think we are, after one hundred one years, dissimilar enough to make it safe. Of course there is always a risk. But I would show you—I would give you what I feel.”

So Spock allowed it, and as the thicker fingers settled on his face, he felt raw fear cloud his thoughts. But his Vulcan training held, and he did not flinch.

He and his counterpart _were_ quite different, he realized the instant the elder Spock’s thoughts brushed his. In that more experienced mind was an assurance, a symmetry of thought and feeling, a level of self-acceptance that Spock could not have imagined for himself. He yearned toward it, even as the other pulled away slightly. _You will have to find that for yourself,_ the elder communicated, _but I think he will help you. He helped me, all those years ago, even though I withheld myself from him. But here—this is what I came to show you._

And there was pain. Not the physical kind, but the far more intense emotional variety; it tore open a burning wound in him, hurled him into a starless void, sucked the air from his lungs and locked every muscle tight in agony. Instantly he wanted to die, and he couldn’t even scream—

—and Spock was out of his chair and on his knees on the deck before he realized what had happened to him.

As he caught his breath, he realized the elder Spock had broken the contact immediately and slid down to kneel next to him on the deck, holding his shoulders. He sought the other’s eyes. “What … was that?” he gasped. “Not mere regret—”

“No. It is the pain of a torn bonding link,” the elder said, his face entirely without its Vulcan mask now, contorted with sadness.

“I do not understand. You said you never spoke to him.”

“So I did not. I discovered too late that we were linked nevertheless. He was my other half. I did not feel him die, but I did feel him torn from me.”

“You had him, but you never had him.”

The other bit his lower lip, nodding. “It is so. _That_ is the path I exhort you to avoid. Give him the third definition.”

“I am—or will be—linked with him even if I do not?”

“You are. How did you think you survived the pon farr without sexual release?”

“There was … some release …”

“Yes. In his arms, as you fought him. It would not have happened without the link.”

“By my fathers—I did not know.” He drew a great, shuddering breath. “I didn’t realize.”

“Go to him,” the other said. “Seize the moment. Do not delay.”

“And you?”

“I must leave. I have meddled enough in this timeline.”

“Will you be able to rejoin your own successfully?”

The other’s eyes held a faraway look. “I should be. Or perhaps I will be more fortunate.” He brushed a hand over Spock’s temple, a feather-light touch. “May you live long, may you prosper, and may you find happiness.” He raised his right hand in the ta’al, and with his left pulled a tiny device out of his pocket and pressed it. And was gone.

Spock pressed both palms to the deck and stared at the place where his older self had been.

The door to the lab swished open.

“Sir?”

Spock looked up slowly, still stunned, to see the worried countenance of Crewman Jones L. Jones peering down at him with enormous pale eyes. She crouched next to him and held out a hand. “Are you injured, sir?”

Spock regarded her for a moment. “No, Jones … thank you for your concern.” He considered for a moment and then took her hand, allowing her to help him up even though he didn’t require any help, even though he didn’t as a rule touch anyone aboard casually except for his t’hy’la. It would have been a rather incongruous sight, the slight blonde urchin assisting a much taller, much stronger man to his feet, but the elder Spock was not here to observe and smile his disturbing half-smile at them.

He stood and let go her hand and busied himself with picking up his fallen chair. It must have toppled during the meld; he’d never heard it.

She ran a nervous hand through already slightly disheveled blond locks. “May I ask … ?”

Spock found his voice. “I experienced … a temporal anomaly, Ms. Jones. And I must admit, I am at a loss as to how—or whether—to mention it in my log, so I would appreciate … .”

She cocked her head thoughtfully. “In other words, you fell out of your chair?”

He lifted an eyebrow. “That, too,” he conceded.

“I’m not on duty,” she said after a moment. “I just couldn’t sleep, so I decided to come here to catch up on that reading you left me.” She shrugged. “I don’t have to keep a log right now.”

Spock found himself sorely tempted to smile. “I appreciate your discretion, Ms. Jones.” He held her gaze for another moment. “And I appreciate the morsels of Terran wisdom you have been posting for my edification. I have a comment about yesterday’s entry, _Tempus Fugit._ ”

“Yes, sir?”

“In fact, Time does not flee, nor does it fly away. It does nothing. It does not, in the grander scheme of things, exist. All that exists is our perception of it.”

“Huh? I mean, is that so, sir?”

“Quite possibly.” Spock turned back to the terminal and closed out the files he’d been working on, then gestured for Jones to take his abandoned seat. “I have suggested some reading material for you on that subject. You will find it coded under _tempus fugit._ And if I may suggest a Vulcan addition to your collection?”

Her wide eyes were riveted on him.

 _“If-farr qi sahr’la,”_ he said softly. “The first line of a famous speech by Surak. ‘The time has come.’”

“Thank you, sir.”

He could feel her surprised gaze on his back as he left the lab and headed toward his destiny.

*****

Spock didn’t think consciously about where he was going. Deck Five was quiet at this hour; his footsteps rang hollowly in the corridor that led to the senior officers’ quarters. He had stopped outside Kirk’s door before it struck him that perhaps now was _not_ the proper time, after all. If Kirk was here, he would be asleep at this hour. He walked away from the door, intending to go to his own quarters instead, but something stopped him. He turned and went back to the door, hesitating. Though he should not have been able to tell without—at the very least—dropping his personal empathic shielding and deliberately seeking Kirk’s essence there, Spock _knew_ Kirk was there. And that he was awake.

It shouldn’t have been possible. Just as he shouldn’t have believed, against all logic, that during the Tholian incident, Kirk was alive in the other dimension and could be rescued.

He raised his hand to press the buzzer, but before he ever made contact with it, the door opened. Kirk stood just inside, wearing his uniform trousers and socks but no shirt or boots, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand and smiling tiredly. “Come on in, Mr. Spock.”

Spock’s only concession to his surprise was a lifted eyebrow. Kirk, searching his face, chuckled. “Don’t look so shocked. I heard footsteps go past my door, turn and come back, and I just knew it was you.”

Interesting. Spock stood just far enough inside the door for it to close behind him. “Captain, I…”

” ‘Captain?’ You mean this isn’t a social call?” Kirk teased softly.

“Jim,” Spock corrected. “There is something I wish to discuss with you, but only at a time that is convenient.”

“Now’s fine,” Kirk said easily, waving Spock to the guest chair in front of his desk and plopping down in his own chair. He reached a hand to the back of his neck again. “I was catching up on some administrative work and trying to let it bore me to sleep, but that didn’t happen.”

“Perhaps if I assisted with your neck?” Touching Kirk would make the discussion more difficult, but Kirk was in pain, and that outweighed Spock’s discomfort.

Kirk smiled. “Ah, thanks, Spock.” He swiveled around to give Spock access.

Spock slid his chair over next to Kirk’s and laid his fingers lightly on the captain’s neck. He extended his awareness just enough to sense where the pain was. Of course—it lay in the neck and shoulders, the pain of one who carried heavy burdens. He began to soothe the knotted muscles with his fingers, taking care to press gently.

“Ahhhhh.” Kirk’s open sound of satisfaction gave Spock a warm feeling that started in his throat and melted down through his chest.

He found his voice. “I regret I was less than forthcoming about matters of the Vulcan language, earlier,” he ventured.

“It’s okay, Spock,” Kirk murmured. “I think I’ve already figured out the full definition.”

“You have?” Spock’s hands stopped the massage without his conscious realization.

“Sure. _T’hy’la_ is a friend who’ll notice that your neck hurts and instantly offer to help you without your having to say a word. And then the moment he touches you, you relax, because you trust him with your life. And the pain starts to go away, because the fact that he cares is the most therapeutic substance in the universe.”

Spock’s hands slid off Kirk’s neck.

Kirk turned, wearing his familiar, easy smile, and he looked so beautiful in that moment that Spock quite forgot to breathe. “How’d I do?” Kirk asked.

Spock cleared his throat. “I doubt that definition would ever be used in a library file on the subject, but it is in essence a correct one.”

Kirk shrugged one exquisite bare shoulder. “If you’d like to finish with my neck, you’ll get no objection—t’hy’la.”

Spock could not control the shiver that ran down his back at the sound of _that_ voice saying _that_ word. He lifted his hands to begin the massage anew. “There is more to the explanation of the term, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Jim … before I explain about the word, I have two confessions to make. Or rather, a confession and a report. To the captain.”

“Go ahead.” Kirk’s eyes were closed, and he stretched like a large cat under Spock’s kneading fingers, but Spock could tell that Kirk’s attention was focused squarely on him.

“The confession is that … of course I did listen to your last instructions. I did not wish to, and that was illogical, as I had been forced to declare you dead, but the ship’s chief surgeon demanded that I do so. We both listened to them, and they were helpful to us.”

Kirk chuckled softly under his breath. “I knew he’d do that.” Then he stopped and turned to catch Spock’s eye again. “What you’re confessing is that you lied to me, later.”

Spock sighed. “I believe we were engaging in the human custom known as ‘pulling your leg.’ Captain.”

“Jim.”

“Jim. We wished you to understand that we are not always adversaries and that we would not in fact be at each other’s throats the first moment you left us alone.”

Kirk smiled his slow smile. “I know that.”

“But Jim—please do not leave us alone.”

Kirk reached around and took Spock’s hand, squeezing it. “I’ll do my best not to.” Then he grinned at Spock. “So when did you start participating in human customs?”

Spock allowed himself a rueful grimace. “It is a regrettable tendency that I shall have to control.”

Now Kirk laughed out loud. “It all comes of living among illogical humans.” He let go Spock’s hand. “I hope you won’t make that particular custom a habit.”

“Lying to you? No, Jim.” Spock’s throat felt tight. “I have no wish to do that.”

“Good. And your report?”

Spock sighed. “That is perhaps even more problematic. I have just experienced an … anomaly … in the temporal physics lab. A visitor from another time.”

“A what?” Kirk spun around in his chair, his easy mood gone.

Spock held up a hand. “He is gone. And he was … me.”

“You?”

“An older version of me. From a future timeline.”

“But not your actual older self ….”

“He was from an alternate timeline, of course. As he pointed out, an older Spock did not pay him a visit when he was younger.”

“Did he _do_ anything? Why did he come?”

“He came merely to speak to me, on a matter of a personal nature. No other reason.”

“And you believed him? You trusted him?”

“I did.”

Kirk sighed and sat back in his chair. “He was trying to change his own reality by altering his past? Warn you away from some sort of danger?”

“Not danger, precisely. As I said, it is personal and does not affect the ship. And he does not necessarily believe he will change his reality. Only mine.”

“You didn’t put this into your log,” Kirk said, sounding certain.

“I did not, yet. I realize that is a breach of regulations, sir, but …”

Kirk held up a hand. “It was too personal?”

“It was. However, I will record all the details if you require. I … the conversation concerned another, also, and I would prefer not to invade another’s privacy.” Kirk’s privacy.

“You’re certain it doesn’t involve the ship?”

“Quite certain.”

“All right,” Kirk said finally. “It’ll have to go in the log, of course. But I won’t demand personal details. Put it into your Science log for now, in connection with your temporo-spatial research. But if you see him again, I want to be notified instantly.”

“Yes, sir.”

The fatigued smile crept back over Kirk’s handsome features. “Thanks for the backrub, as always, Mr. Spock.”

“My pleasure.” Spock attempted to relax his posture in his chair. “Jim … I said I had two confessions to make to the captain. In fact, I have a third, but this one is for Jim Kirk.”

Kirk’s expression grew serious again. “Both your friend and your captain are here for you, Spock.”

“Is it so simple for humans?” Spock wondered aloud. “Captain … and friend, one and the same, at the same time?”

Kirk shrugged. “I suppose. I don’t really know another way to be. How is it for Vulcans?”

“What I have to say,” Spock said slowly, “touches on just this question. I have given you two possible translations for the word _t’hy’la_ already: ‘friend’ and ‘brother.’ These terms in Standard pale beside the true meaning of t’hy’la. Although you might have a friend or a brother who had such significance to you that you would do anything for him, t’hy’la is yet more.”

“And I am t’hy’la to you? Spock, I … am honored.”

Spock lowered his eyes. “Do you recall the events that led to my apparent court-martial on board the Enterprise?”

“Of course. In orbit around planet Talos IV.”

“My doing,” Spock said regretfully. “Something that never, ever should have happened. I _was_ willing to bear full responsibility for my actions, but I was most fortunate to escape it.”

“But the Talosians made it all happen, didn’t they? Coerced you somehow?”

Spock’s throat felt tight. “They did. I was an easy mark for them. For one thing, they had encountered me before. The Talosians need to scan a person only once; their memory is forever. For another, they knew of my regard for Christopher Pike. He was my captain; I believe I ‘looked up to him,’ as the Earth expression goes.”

“But the whole crew was loyal to him, weren’t they?”

“Certainly. He was a fine commander. But I was the most logical choice for several reasons. First, I am one of only a handful of Pike’s former crew remaining on active duty in deep space, with access to a starship and current command codes. Second, I had the computer knowledge necessary to sabotage the Enterprise and the starbase computers. And third and most significant, I am a Vulcan. Once a Vulcan gives his loyalty it is not withdrawn. I had given mine to Christopher Pike.”

“But you’d given your oath to Starfleet,” Kirk said. “And your loyalty to me, as well. I could have been executed right along with you.”

Spock could not keep his sadness at that thought from spilling over his Vulcan walls, and he knew Kirk was reading it on his face. He closed his eyes with the effort of reasserting his controls. When he opened them, he found himself looking into concerned hazel eyes, only a foot from him.

Kirk’s hand closed around Spock’s shoulder. “It’s all right, Spock. You know that if there was anything to forgive, I forgave you long ago. I can put two and two together as well as the next starship captain. I knew they had to have coerced you somehow. I’m just trying to understand what you’re trying to tell me.”

“Jim. Frequently I wonder how I have managed to deserve a friend such as you.” He heard himself take in a slightly ragged breath and fought for control.

“It was very simple for the Talosians to influence me,” Spock went on, feeling a heady sense of daring even through the terror of knowing he was going to have to come out with the whole truth, finally and forever. “They merely sent me the illusion that Chris Pike was t’hy’la to me, and my body and mind believed it. Chris had been contacted by the Keeper telepathically, and he _did_ wish to go to Talos. He signaled ‘no’ repeatedly only because he did not wish me, and you and the Enterprise, to risk a capital offense. Even he did not quite realize what the Talosians were capable of.”

“So, believing Chris Pike was t’hy’la was enough to make you … do what you did?”

“Yes!” Spock was on his feet suddenly without recalling feeling the impulse to stand. He stepped back, away from Kirk, as though to protect him. “Do you see, Jim? You know of some Vulcan dangers already; you know what can happen to us at certain times. Do you see that _t’hy’la_ is the greatest threat of all?”

“No,” Kirk said, rising also and walking forward, slowly, his hands outstretched. “I don’t see. Just because the Talosians, phenomenally strong telepaths and masters of illusion, can delude you, you’re a risk? They fooled all of us. We still don’t know how long their reach is. As far as I’m concerned they’re still a potential threat; it’s just lucky that they don’t seem to _want_ to threaten us ever since the original Enterprise mission there.”

Spock sighed, but held his ground. “Chris Pike is not my t’hy’la, Jim. That illusion vanished at the same time that the image of Commodore Mendez aboard the Enterprise vanished. _You_ are, and always shall be, t’hy’la to me. Yesterday, the Enterprise became trapped in the Tholian energy web and could easily have been captured or destroyed because I could not leave my t’hy’la behind. I am a threat to the Enterprise’s well-being and …” He swallowed hard, and his voice came out a harsh whisper. “My oath to Starfleet is forsworn. I do not see how I can continue to serve under the circumstances.”

Kirk backed up and sat down heavily in his chair. He rubbed his eyes. “I guess I don’t understand, after all. You’re trying to tell me that because you feel this particular kind of Vulcan loyalty and friendship for me, that you’re incapable of leaving me in danger or of doing what’s best for the ship? I don’t see that, Spock. You’ve obeyed my command to get the ship to safety many times when I was under a personal threat. You were in command while I was marooned for weeks on Miramanee’s World. You deserved the commendation you received.”

Spock examined the ceiling. “I severely disabled the Enterprise in the attempt to destroy the asteroid. You were lost. There is a distinct possibility that I was not thinking clearly because of that fact.”

“Nonsense. You’re the clearest thinker in half the galaxy. I probably would have done the same thing, anyway. We’re not out exploring deep space to be _safe,_ Spock. No matter how much care we take to protect ship and crew, there’s always a risk. A calculated one, and you’re the best at calculating risks that I’ve ever met. You don’t take unnecessary ones. You weigh the odds.”

Spock clasped his hands behind his back, at a loss for how to explain further. It was apparent that Kirk did not understand.

Kirk stood up and came forward, ever the military strategist, pressing his advantage. “I think what I’m really hearing is that you’re afraid of your emotions, and that’s not exactly a news bulletin. I’m also hearing that you don’t trust your own intuition—and while I already knew that, too, I find it odd for someone with your psychic gifts. You _should_ trust yourself.”

“Jim, I—”

“Let me finish.” Kirk stepped around Spock to his left shoulder, coming so close that Spock could feel Kirk’s warm breath on his ear and the side of his face. The sensation was maddening; Spock held completely still.

“You’re a fine officer, Spock, and there’s no one I trust more with my life _or_ my ship,” Kirk said. “If you want to go through your record mission by mission and show me where you think your personal loyalty to me has compromised your Starfleet oath, go ahead. I’ll counter every argument, I’ll bet you I can.

“I don’t even believe you compromised yourself when you stayed near the spatial rift; it’s what I would have done for _any_ missing crew, and I know you would have also. And it accomplished several objectives. Not only did you buy McCoy enough time to find an antidote to the psychological effects of the spatial distortion, but you managed to send a message to the Tholians that ought to discourage their aggressive tendencies for a while. It was brilliantly played, Spock. You came out with everything—ship, captain, diplomatic solution. Checkmate.” His hand closed over Spock’s left shoulder, gripping tightly. “Are you going to attempt to argue with success?”

Spock looked up, startled. “I had not considered …”

“The logic of the positive outcome?”

“I prefer to analyze known quantities. You are correct when you say that I do not inherently trust intuition.”

Kirk gripped his shoulder even harder. “You know what, Spock? I don’t believe you.” A slow grin spread across Kirk’s face. “You _act_ on intuition all the time. I don’t think it’s your _preference_ to analyze. I think that idea has been trained into you. Beaten into you, maybe.”

“Vulcan methods of instruction can seem harsh to outworlders,” Spock said, “but they do not generally involve physical punishment. Such would be violence.”

“I was speaking figuratively. They trained you rigorously in a method of thinking that was alien to you. They convinced you it was the only way to think. But look at those missions you were calling into question a moment ago. How did you solve the enigma at Miramanee’s World? How did you get yourself and the crew of the Galileo rescued? How did you rescue me from the interspace rift?

“Intuition! That, and the connection you feel with me. I feel it, too, Spock; I always have.” He moved around to take Spock’s other shoulder in his hand also, and gave his friend an affectionate shake. “You don’t need to be ashamed of it. Do you know how long I’ve wished for you that you would give up being ashamed of how you feel?”

Kirk was right. For as long as he could remember, Spock had been ashamed of almost any feeling he detected in himself, especially the affection he held for Kirk. He thought he had finally understood the threat it posed, and now Kirk was insisting, quite logically, that Spock’s feelings not only posed no threat, but were actually responsible for the positive outcomes of many missions.

Spock felt shaken to his core. Could it be this simple? Had the older version of himself spent decades learning this truth, only to find there was no longer a Jim to share it with? The pain of the elder Spock’s loss was fresh in his memory.

His course was obvious. Spock drew a deep, fortifying breath, feeling oddly relieved and apprehensive at the same time. He was about to step off a figurative cliff, and although Jim held him, although Jim had always been strong, had always been accepting of Spock in every situation Spock could remember, perhaps this one would push Jim too far. He would give Kirk the third definition, as his older self had exhorted him to do. He would give Kirk the word so long withheld.

And the actions. “Jim.” Spock reached up to hold Kirk’s shoulders as Kirk held his. He cupped his hands over the generous musculature there, feeling its cool solidity, while a part of his mind wondered that he’d never dared such a touch before. It had been much too long in coming, he decided. “There is more to t’hy’la than I have explained. It is not merely a relationship of the spirit and the heart; it is also a relationship of the body. It is a telepathic connection. I have withheld this information because I believed you would not understand. I believed you would find it distasteful, certainly alien, and unsuitable in a command team.”

“I—I’m not sure exactly what you mean, Spock.” For the first time, Kirk appeared hesitant. He tilted his head down slowly to look at Spock’s hand on his left shoulder. “I haven’t pushed you away in any way that I’m aware of. Why would you assume that you couldn’t explain this to me?” He looked back up at Spock, his pupils wide and dark with emotion. “Are you saying that this connection I feel to you is partly because of some kind of telepathic link between us?”

“There is a link, but I did not clearly understand its nature.”

“You said it’s a relationship of the body, too. Do you mean the mental link has a physical side to it? What exactly does that mean?”

An impulse to act flashed through Spock’s mind, and he almost—almost—dismissed it out of hand. He caught himself and knew it for what it was: true intuition. A slight current of joy coursed through him as he surrendered to it. He leaned forward, pulling Kirk to him, quickly, before he would stop himself out of shame or self-consciousness, before Kirk would stop him out of confusion. But Kirk didn’t move a muscle, he just let Spock draw him close. Total trust shone in hazel eyes.

Spock kissed him.

It was just a quick, gentle pressing of his lips to Kirk’s, then Spock drew back. “Physical,” he said, lifting a sheepish eyebrow.

Kirk’s fingers closed around Spock’s chin, and the look on Kirk’s face was one of utter amazement. “Physical as in, you want to be very close chums? Physical as in, it’s okay to touch in affection? Or physical as in—” He drew his forefinger over Spock’s lips briefly.

At that moment, Spock remembered that there were many humans who kissed friends casually in the same manner in which he had kissed Kirk. He would have to be more obvious. He lowered his mouth to Kirk’s again, and this time he did not draw back quickly. His lips pressing Kirk’s were an invitation. Kirk would either pull back, or he would …

Kirk’s mouth opened under Spock’s. Their tongues sought each other, tentatively at first, then more aggressively. Spock forgot to breathe. It was Jim kissing him. He was kissing Jim. Unbelievable, and true. One of Spock’s hands left Kirk’s shoulder and slid up into the light brown hair, cupping the back of Kirk’s head. One of Kirk’s crept up the side of Spock’s throat to his ear and stroked it up to the tip.

Kirk’s body yielded into Spock’s arms. The muscular human form pressed close against Spock’s leaner one, and Spock felt his body respond joyfully to the intimate embrace of t’hy’la. He was quite suddenly and shockingly erect under his uniform, and his hardness pressed Kirk’s belly unashamedly. He broke the kiss and moved his lips to Kirk’s throat, heard his own soft moan in his ears as he kissed the silken skin there. Kirk’s scent reminded him of dew on grass in Earth mornings, that and woodsmoke, from a planet where trees were plentiful. Spock breathed in the sweetness and thought he would never get enough. He bent his head to kiss the smooth, incomparable chest.

Above him, Kirk chuckled softly. “Physical, huh,” he breathed into Spock’s ear.

Spock straightened up to gentle the side of Kirk’s face just behind the meld contact points. “Lover,” he confessed. “That is the word I withheld. T’hy’la is three things at once: friend, brother, _and_ lover. It is incomplete without the third definition.”

“But you said we were already t’hy’la.”

“I was describing a particular sort of telepathic affinity or connection. I believe that already exists for us. I merely did not realize that t’hy’la _always_ includes the meaning _lover._ I thought we could continue on as we have been. Friends but not lovers. Now I see that lovers who have not consummated their love in sexual union … are still lovers.” He could not meet Kirk’s eyes.

“Sexual union,” Kirk repeated, and his velvety voice repeating that phrase threatened to make Spock’s knees buckle. “Is that what you’ve wanted, with me?”

There was nothing to do but tell the whole truth. Spock looked Kirk straight in the eye. “Yes.”

“But you didn’t want to tell me.”

“I thought it was inappropriate. I tried _not_ to want it. I believed I could ignore it. I was wrong.”

Kirk’s lips brushed Spock’s ear. “It’s okay, Spock. I want it, too. I think I always have.”

Spock knew surprise was written all over his face, and he did not care at all. “You have wanted me, as I wanted you?”

Kirk’s incandescent smile answered him. “You’ve just gone to great pains to explain to me what this t’hy’la thing is,” Kirk said. “As you yourself have pointed out, it’s something _we already have._ What you’ve described couldn’t possibly be one-sided. Obviously, I’m an equal party to it.”

The breath caught in Spock’s chest. He had not considered that Kirk might already feel as he did, but Kirk’s logic was inescapable.

Kirk put a hand up to touch Spock’s bangs; whether he was putting them back in place or messing them up, Spock could not tell.

“The Spock from the future,” Spock said, “showed me the nature of his link with his Jim Kirk. Had he not made me aware … I might never have spoken to you.”

Kirk laid a hand on Spock’s cheek and slipped his other arm around Spock’s back to draw him closer. “It was thoughtful of him, but he needn’t have bothered. Why do you think I was so insistent earlier that you explain ‘t’hy’la’ to me? I was planning to draw you out about this sooner or later. I had some time to think in the other universe. There’s nothing like being totally alone to make you very clear you prefer companionship. All I could think of was getting back to you. That’s why I kept telling you to hurry.

“And speaking of hurrying, Spock—” Kirk’s hands slid down to curve around the back of Spock’s waist. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’re poking me in the belly with a very stiff erection. That may mean something else on Vulcan, but on Earth it means you want to go to bed with me. If I’m mistaken, maybe you’d better translate.”

“In this case, Jim, I believe you have hit upon the exact translation.”

Kirk tilted his head in the direction of the bedchamber. “You want to? Now?”

Spock could not keep his lips from turning up into a true, open smile. “As Crewman Jones took pains to inform me the other day, it is believed on Earth that ‘there is no time like the present.’ “

“And she’s right, too.”

“You are not unduly fatigued?”

“Are you kidding? No, of course you’re not.” He laughed softly. “I’m wide awake. Come here, Mister.”

They shed their clothes, leaving them where they fell, and dropped into Kirk’s bunk together. Spock slid his hands around Kirk’s back and down to his buttocks, pulling Kirk against him. He could not wait for the sensation of Kirk’s naked body against his; when he finally felt it, it was ecstasy. Kirk was warm in some places and cool in others, his arms and chest and thighs like sculpted marble. The pulse in his throat thrilled against Spock’s lips. Spock’s hands shook as he caressed the curves of Kirk’s backside.

Kirk’s hands were not particularly steady, either, as he stroked Spock’s chest, carding his fingers through the curling black hair. “You’re beautiful,” Kirk whispered, “and all of a sudden I’m as nervous as a teenager.”

Spock could not make himself speak. His body seemed to operate on its own, knowing its t’hy’la even though they had not done this before. With his eyes closed, he found Kirk’s erection by touch and began to stroke it. Kirk shuddered against him. “Oh, god ….”

A strong hand encircled Spock’s hardness and began to stroke him in the same rhythm, sending waves of pleasure along all his nerves. Spock’s eyes snapped open; he looked down to see Kirk’s hand on his cock, the pink-flushed palm of Kirk’s hand surrounding the dusky green flush of Spock’s sex, which was suddenly very moist. He lowered his head to Kirk’s mouth to find it opening eagerly and wetly under his, and suddenly Spock could not hold the sensations back any longer. _T’hy’la, oh, t’hy’la …_ He shuddered deeply and felt himself begin to lose control. Moaning soundlessly into Jim’s mouth, he let it happen, let his control shatter. Every muscle in his body locked tight as he came, his seed spilling forth onto Jim’s hand, Jim’s belly, Jim’s cock, and his own hand. White-hot pleasure seared him; eventually he heard someone gasping for breath and realized it was he. “Jim, Jim, Jim,” he whispered into the rounded ear. And he knew, and Jim knew, that the word was love.

“Good, Spock, so good,” Jim murmured against his cheek. Jim’s cock pulsed strongly in Spock’s grip, a jolt of urgency communicating itself from body to body. The desire to pleasure Jim in every way, in the most intense ways possible, rushed through Spock. He slid down quickly to take Jim’s cock in his mouth, moving his hand down to stroke Jim’s balls and inner thighs. Again he felt the strong pulsation, and then Jim was thrusting his hips wildly and arching up to hold Spock’s head and whispering, “Oh, god, oh god, Spock,” into Spock’s hair and jetting warm liquid into Spock’s mouth. Spock swallowed and swallowed, drinking of his t’hy’la’s pleasure. Drinking of the intoxicating scent of Jim; Spock would never get enough.

Kirk finally slackened against the mattress, and Spock let him go, placing gentle kisses on Kirk’s thighs and belly before he drew up to lie next to him. “Forgive me,” he said, while kissing the swell of Kirk’s right pectoral. “That was rather more precipitous than I anticipated.”

Kirk’s eyes were bright. “S’okay. I’ve been telling you over and over to hurry, what did you expect?” He leaned up to kiss Spock wetly on the chin. “But when we recover … let’s make love slowly. And meld, and do every beautiful thing. We have all the time in the world, now.”

*****

Twenty-seven years later to the very day, Spock and Kirk were lying together in quite a similar position in their San Francisco apartment when an urgent communiqué came in from Starfleet Command. It was morning, and they’d awakened together as they almost always did, lying side by side, naked and covered only by a sheet, with one of Spock’s arms flung protectively across Kirk’s chest. Spock waited patiently as Kirk roused himself just enough to switch the bedside viewer to voice only and take the call.

Kirk was soon to retire but had not made it official yet, so he still needed to take HQ’s calls. His assistant’s tense voice relayed that the newly commissioned Enterprise-B had barely escaped a deadly encounter with a strange ribbon of energy known only as the Nexus. It had survived because of the heroism of one of Kirk’s former shipmates and friends, Commander Pavel Chekov, who had given his life in the performance of his duty. Captain Scott had been aboard also but had not been injured. Kirk’s assistant gave some of the details of Chekov’s actions aboard and mentioned the posthumous medal of valor that he would be awarded.

Kirk snapped the comm off and lay back against Spock with a sigh.

Spock lifted a gentle hand to stroke Kirk’s bare shoulder. “I grieve with thee, t’hy’la.”

“I know. And I with you.” After a moment, Kirk went on, “God, I feel strange hearing that. It’s not as though I haven’t lost crew and friends before. It’s just … did you hear what she said about that cowboy stunt he pulled? It sounds like something I would have done.” He pushed a hand through his hair. “At least somebody was there to pull the right cowboy stunt at the right time. They could have lost that ship with all hands.”

“Indeed. Chekov learned from the best.”

“I was supposed to be there,” Kirk went on as though he hadn’t heard him. “I would have been, if I hadn’t already promised to hear you give that paper on time travel at the symposium. It’s almost eerie. You know the human expression, ‘I feel as though someone’s walking over my grave?’”

Spock, regarding him closely, felt a shiver steal up his spine. “I do. And I believe I am experiencing the same sensation.” He shifted around so that he lay on his side against Kirk, and moved one leg to entwine with Kirk’s. “Do you remember our first night together?”

“You know the answer to that. I remember it as though it were yesterday.”

Spock nodded. “My own recall may not be perfect anymore, not since the fal tor pan, but I do remember that night. Before I came to speak to you, I had a most illuminating conversation with … myself.”

“The Spock from the future. I remember. You never told me much of what he said.”

“What he said was relevant only to the Spock I was at that time. By speaking to you that night, I altered my own path dramatically. What happened to him in his past was therefore no longer relevant to me, because our timelines had diverged so widely, and any attempt to make decisions or choices based on knowledge of his timeline would not only be doomed to fail, but could actually backfire. The only logical course was to ignore that information completely. And so I did, until now. This incident has reminded me.” Spock sighed. “He indicated that his Jim was lost seventy-four years earlier, in his time. I did not realize until now, but it would have been today. Seventy-four years earlier exactly, from his perspective.”

“Oh my god. The other Jim _was_ on the Enterprise-B. But in this timeline, Chekov went.”

“Correct.” Spock’s hand soothed Kirk’s shoulder. “Jim, I do not believe he is dead.”

“Is that a human reaction to grief? Denial?”

“I do not think so, beloved,” Spock answered quietly. “I believe it is … intuition.” He sighed softly.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Kirk said.

“I am considering the enormous gratitude I feel at this moment for that other Spock, wherever he may be ‘now.’ If you had been lost today, I still would have had the past twenty-seven years with you. And, as you were not lost, we most likely have many more to look forward to. It is a gift.”

“I love you, too, Spock,” Kirk said. He lifted up to spread a hand over Spock’s chest. “It doesn’t bother you—the thought that Chekov is lost in my place?”

“He is not. He made a choice, the same one that you or I would have made had we been there, and I honor him for that. You made a choice also. The Jim Kirk who could have allowed Nogura to pull his strings one more time … chose instead to stay on Earth to honor his bondmate at the symposium, and that is a gift, too. _You_ are a gift to me, my Jim.”

Kirk’s mouth worked, but no sound issued forth. Finally he climbed halfway up onto Spock and kissed him hard on the jaw. “Make love to me.” His tone was intense, urgent. He grabbed Spock’s hand and pulled it over to cover a very stiff erection. “Hurry, Spock.” _Hurry in case our days_ are _numbered_ , his insistent kisses seemed to say.

Spock eased Kirk down onto his back and rolled on top of him. Supporting himself on his elbows, he rubbed the length of his body over Kirk’s still-beautiful form. He lifted both hands to brush against the meld points and captured Kirk’s mouth with his own for a moment. When he released Kirk’s mouth, the hazel eyes were very bright. “Hurry, Spock. I don’t think I can last long.”

Spock slid his knees between Kirk’s and brought their cocks together in delicious friction. He rocked slowly as Kirk moaned and grabbed his hands, forcing them hard against the meld points. “Now, Spock!”

“Very well, t’hy’la,” Spock said. Kirk had not been this insistent since the early years of their relationship, but Spock understood. The emotion of the situation—both grief over Chekov and the memory of the alternate Spock’s pain—were having a similar effect on Spock, driving him to affirm life in this most basic of ways. He would honor that instinct, too.

But as he sank into Kirk’s mind and together they brought their bodies and minds to a swift, joyous climax, Spock felt the truth of his lover’s innocent, long-ago declaration, _we have all the time in the world._

He felt quite certain, now, that they did.

**Author's Note:**

> Challenge: A Spock from the future comes back in time and tells the "now" Spock to _Carpe Diem..._ Seize the day...


End file.
